Josh though for a moment. That was a long street. “You mean right near the freeway? That one?”
“Yes,” the man said. “I’ll be in a gold Lexus. How will I recognize you?”
Josh looked at his clothing. “I’m wearing a blue T-shirt with Iron Maiden on the back. You know, the band. And I’ve got long hair.”
“Oh,” the man said, his voice laced with excitement, almost breathless. “Is it as long as a girl’s hair, Ricky? I like that. I like long hair. Did you bathe today?”
Josh’s stomach was flopping around like he’d swallowed a bowl of goldfish. He answered, “Yeah, I bathed. Why don’t I meet you in about thirty minutes?” This guy was sick, he thought, really sick. He’d seen bad things before, but never had he heard anything as sick as this. It sounded like the man wanted to cook him for dinner. Asking him if he’d taken a bath and all. When he talked, he made these little smacking sounds. It made him want to throw up. The line was silent and then the man spoke. “I’ll be waiting, Ricky.”
The Adams trial was still in session and Lara was watching the clock, counting the seconds. She’d made Rickerson promise that he wouldn’t arrest Evergreen without her. Because they were late beginning the afternoon session, they were running past five o’clock. It was now after six. In the front row behind the defense table were two lovely little girls. Lara knew they were Victor Adams’s daughters. She’d watched as a babysitter had delivered them to the courtroom about an hour ago. They were unruly and disruptive, jumping up and running down the aisles, pulling each other’s hair and screaming. Their father turned around on several occasions and tried to subdue them, but they were bored and tired of sitting. Lara felt such compassion for the man that she had let the disruption continue. “This appears to be a good stopping point for today. Let’s adjourn and resume at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.” She tapped the gavel.
Lara glanced at the defendant. His mental condition seemed to be deteriorating a little more each day. His hair looked unwashed, his shirt was wrinkled, and he didn’t appear to be following the proceedings. One of the little girls leaped in his lap while the other dumped a cup of coffee on the counsel table, soaking all the papers. Adams sat there motionless, as if they weren’t even there, his eyes empty and unseeing. The attorneys were packing their cases and the jurors had already filed out, but Lara didn’t leave the bench.
“Mr. Steinfield,” she said. “Could you approach the bench a moment?”
Once he had, she leaned over and spoke in hushed tones. “Your client cannot bring his children to my courtroom. They’re cute, but extremely disruptive.”
“Believe me, I know that.” He glanced over his shoulder. “That soggy stack of paper over there is a brief I need for another case. He’s having trouble with baby-sitters.”
“I see,” Lara said thoughtfully. “I have a thought. Would your client be willing to submit to a competency test?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Why?”
“Well, I’m not certain he’s mentally competent to stand trial right now. Perhaps we could suspend the proceedings and get him some type of treatment. Then he could get his life together and return at a later date. It makes sense. I could refer him for a court-ordered psychological evaluation.”
Steinfield stood there a few moments and then glanced back at his client. “He’s not going to go for it. We’re halfway there, you know. He just wants to get it over with.”
“I understand,” Lara said, her voice still low, the D.A. eyeing her suspiciously, wondering what she was discussing with the defense. “But is he able to cooperate in his defense, Counselor?”
“Probably not,” he said, glancing back at the defense table. “He’s hardly speaking lately, and when he does, he’s incoherent.”
Lara noticed that the clerks, the bailiff, the court reporter, and the D.A. were standing around waiting, uncertain if they were adjourned or were about to continue. The court reporter had started to put away her machine and then stopped.
“We’re no longer on record,” Lara told them. “Mr. Steinfield and I are just discussing something. You may all leave.”
Now there was a lot of shuffling of papers and people started spilling out of the courtroom, ready to hit the rush-hour traffic, go home to their families.
“Well, Mr. Steinfield,” Lara said, “what do you think?”
“I’ll ask him.”
“Fine,” she said. “Advise me tomorrow before we resume.”
Lara left the bench and headed to her chambers. Rickerson was waiting. His face was flushed and his eyes wild with excitement.
“You go with me,” he told her, smacking an enormous wad of gum. “The others will meet us at Evergreen’s house. He lives in Anaheim Hills. The traffic’s going to be murder.”
“Did you get the warrants?” she asked, tossing her robe on the hook. Phillip had already left.
“Right here,” he said, patting his jacket pocket. “Hot off the presses. D.A.‘s coming too. And, of course, we have a warrant to search the residence and to search that apartment. You know, the one rented in the name of Tommy Black.”
Lara faced Rickerson, her hands at her sides. “This is it, huh? I can’t believe it. I know it’s happening, but I just can’t believe it. I can’t wait to see his face when we walk up. God,” she said, her eyes glued on the detective’s, “I’m so nervous. I want this so bad. You’ll never know. You’ll just never know.”
The detective stepped up close and brushed a strand of hair off her forehead. Then he bent down and kissed her gently on the lips. “When this is over, we’ll celebrate.”
Lara smiled at him. “I want to meet your boys. Jimmy is the same age as Josh. That’s nice, you know? Think they’ll like each other?”
“Sure,” Rickerson said, dragging out the word. He knew a lot more about kids than Lara did. His boys would be jealous of Lara. Josh would be suspicious and jealous of him. Jimmy and Josh would more than likely hate each other the moment they met, but other than that, everything would work out fine.
“Just let it ring,” Rickerson said when Lara’s phone started ringing. “We’ve got to get moving. Everyone’s waiting.”
“It could be important,” she said, seizing the phone. It was Emmet.
“Where’s…Josh?” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Emmet. He went to his friend’s house. I should have told you.”
“What…friend?”
“Ricky Simmons. Why? Is something wrong, Emmet? Do you need something?”
“I…need to…call…him,” he said. “He…messed up…my computer.”
“Oh, Emmet, I’m sorry. Hold on.” Lara looked at Rickerson. He was pacing and anxious to leave. She dug Ricky Simmons’s phone number out of her purse and went back on the line with Emmet. Once she had given him the number, she disconnected and headed to the door.
“You were great up there today,” she said affectionately to the detective as they walked down the empty corridor. “Really, Ted. I mean it. I was very impressed.”
His chest swelled with pride and his eyes flashed. “Nan,” he said. “You’re the one, Lara. You’ve been a trooper through this whole thing. Even with the threats on your life and your nephew to deal with, not once have you backed down or turned into a sniveling female. That asshole attacked you and you never missed a day of work. I admire you, you know.” He stopped for a moment and cleared his throat. His face flushed bright red. Just then the doors to the elevator opened and they stepped inside. They were alone. “What are you going to do about Josh’s school?”
“I don’t know,” Lara said, sighing, leaning against the back wall. “I guess I’ll transfer him to a school in Irvine.”
“Shouldn’t really do that, you know. At least not right away. Everything else has changed in his life. Leave him there with his friends.”
Her eyes drifted down. He might be right. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
They emerged from the building and walked to his police unit. “And Em
met,” he said, changing the subject once they were at the car, “I owe that fellow a cup of coffee.”
Rickerson’s tie was crooked. Lara stepped closer and fixed it. “Coffee, Rickerson?” she said. “You owe him a dinner. Got that? Let’s not be cheap here.”
“What are we waiting for?” he said, throwing the car door open. “Let’s go get that big fish and reel him in. I think he’s beginning to smell.”
As soon as Emmet hung up with Lara, he dialed Ricky Simmons’s number. He was in his own condo, so he had access to a phone. At first Ricky couldn’t understand him and thought it was a wrong number. Then he told Emmet that Josh was gone. “You’re Emmet, huh?” Ricky said. “Josh said you have Prodigy. That’s so cool. I wanted my mom—”
“Where…did…he…go?” Emmet said, cutting the boy off. He was nervous and having even more difficulty speaking. He was tremendously concerned about Josh. He had given thought to telling Lara what he knew, but he had promised the boy.
“To get some free video games, man. Hey,” he told Emmet, “that’s all I know. Some creepy guy is gonna give them to him.”
“Ricky,” Emmet said, his words coming faster, using every ounce of strength he had, “you must tell me…where Josh is. This man…is…dangerous. Please.”
“All I know is he was supposed to meet him at the 7-Eleven by the freeway. The one off Avenue Palizada. He took my bike.”
After thanking the boy, Emmet hung up. His fears were confirmed. This was bad, extremely bad. He had to do something. No matter what he had promised, he simply couldn’t let Josh get hurt. He tried to call Lara back at the court, but there was no answer. His frail body was shaking. He dialed the police.
“I…I…need to report…” Emmet said.
“Sir,” the dispatcher said, the recorded line beeping every few seconds, radio traffic in the background. “You’ll have to speak up. I can’t understand you.”
“I…boy…San Clemente.” It seemed the harder Emmet tried to make himself understood, the less he could say.
“I’m sorry,” the dispatcher said. “We must have a bad connection.”
Emmet was in the throes of frustration now. “Help him. He…will…be…hurt.”
“Did you say your name was Burt? I need your last name and your address. Then I’ll dispatch an officer. Is there someone else there I can talk to? Your mother maybe, because—”
Emmet dropped the phone in anger. The stupid woman thought he was a child. By the time he got her to understand what he was saying, it would be too late. He hit the high speed on his chair, heading toward the front door. There wasn’t much time. He had to stop Josh. He couldn’t afford to wait another second. Moving fast down the walkway, he stopped at the door of the woman who normally drove him, but she wasn’t at home. Then he headed straight to his van in the parking lot. It had hand controls. Until last year Emmet had been able to drive. He put the key in the rear door and activated the lift. He was counting seconds under his breath. Finally he was inside and behind the wheel. Sweat was dripping off his face and his wasted muscles were twitching with fatigue. He mustered up strength he didn’t know he still had, seizing the hand controls with one hand, the steering wheel with the other. In seconds he was on the road to San Clemente, his head braced on the door window, his eyes straight ahead.
Josh pedaled as fast as he could. Ricky Simmons lived near his old house, in the foothills, and the location where he was meeting the game man was in downtown San Clemente. He tried not to look at the familiar surroundings as he hit the hill and coasted down, the wind blowing his hair. His life had split into two separate sections. One was his life before the murders and now there was his life since. When he thought of his old life, when his mother was alive, he tried to imagine that Josh McKinley was not him, that those people were not his relatives, his loved ones. Those people whose bodies he had seen that day.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love his mother, because he did. But sometimes he was angry at her, even now, even after her death. Once she had married Sam, she had almost stopped being his mother. And she had gotten herself killed—did things that were wrong, things he just couldn’t understand. She had been so beautiful when his father was alive. It was more than the way she looked on the outside. It was something inside her. It was the way she laughed, the way she smiled—the way she smelled when he was young and she used to bend down over his bed to kiss him good night. She smelled like baby powder. It was fresh and clean. He could never forget that smell. Once his father died, she hadn’t kissed him good night anymore. When she got close to him, he could smell beer on her breath and a sickening too-sweet perfume.
He would always miss her, dream about her, cry for her. But she was gone and nothing would change that. No amount of crying or pleading or screaming would ever change that.
He had a system. Every day he tried to let a little of the past go, let it run through his fingers like water. All the bad times particularly. They were the first ones to go. He worked at it, sitting in study hall during the day talking to himself under his breath, telling himself that he must not think of the bad times. All he wanted to remember were the days when his father had been alive, the days when they were all happy and together.
He was beginning to love Lara Sanderstone. He couldn’t tell her yet, but he was. Not like his mother, but different. Maybe he loved her the way he would love his grandmother if she’d been alive, or an older brother or sister. He wasn’t sure, but he knew the feeling. It was love built on respect. She was so smart, so sure of herself. She was determined in everything that she did. Sometimes he watched her, studied her face and saw her features settling into an expression he knew all too well.
He’d seen that expression in the mirror.
They were alike. He didn’t know exactly how, but he knew they were alike. They crawled inside themselves, braced themselves against the bad times. They went on when they thought they couldn’t go on.
That’s how they were alike.
When he’d first come to live with Lara, after his mother and Sam were murdered, he’d hated her. Every time he looked at her, he saw his mother in her face, her hair, her eyes. And she wasn’t quite as pretty as his mother. She was also sterner—a far more serious person. It had annoyed him for some reason that she was so like his mother and so unlike her at the same time. But lately those feelings had disappeared. Sometimes he actually pretended that she was his mother.
This game man had something to do with his mother’s death. He didn’t know what, but he knew he did, knew Lara was after him for exactly that reason. He was a dirty pervert. His mother had been a prostitute. There was a connection there, even if he didn’t understand it.
He stopped and rested, checking his pocket and removing a piece of paper. He had the number of the police department written down—the number where that Detective Rickerson worked. He wasn’t afraid. He wouldn’t allow himself to be afraid. He was going to do something brave, something important. It would be his final gift to his mother.
Climbing back on the bike, he continued. He was almost there. Off in the distance he could see the freeway. Right past the freeway was the convenience store.
He watched television so he knew what he had to do. Almost every station had a cop program or a true-crime program. He liked Top Cops and America’s Most Wanted.
What he had to do was get this creep to do something wrong. He had to let him do something wrong, something bad. Then they could arrest him. He drew lines in his mind as to just what he’d let him do. He could touch him. That Josh felt certain he could handle, as long as he wasn’t totally gross and scary, didn’t look like he’d cut him up and eat him. Lots of bad guys did that now. He saw it on the news. He’d seen one guy who had heads of people in his refrigerator. They’d carried out the heads and things in boxes.
And that guy had liked teenage boys too.
Josh was perspiring. His hair was soaking wet, and sweat was dripping down onto the handlebars. He didn’t think it was just from the exe
rtion of riding a bike. He knew he was scared. Stopping by a bunch of shrubs, he went behind them and urinated. He was so nervous that he couldn’t hold it even though he had gone at Ricky’s right after school. Then he wiped his hands on his jeans and started off again. He crossed under the freeway and rode straight to the convenience store.
He waited.
The black-and-white police units were parked a block down from Evergreen’s residence. The FBI had insisted on being present, wanting to search the residence to see if there was any child pornography inside or any reason to believe that Evergreen had been producing his own films. Lawrence Meyer, the district attorney, was present in an unmarked car. He’d brought another D.A. and one of their investigators. The chief and his son were present. They were all waiting for Rickerson.
“I think we should go in now,” the chief said, having got out of his own unit and walked down to the others. He was antsy. It wasn’t every day they arrested a presiding judge. “He could destroy evidence, attempt to flee. Let’s go.”
Meyer spoke up from inside his car. Several of the other officers had stepped out onto the street. “Why don’t we wait for Rickerson?” he told the chief. “He’s probably tied up in traffic. Hell, this is his case. Let’s not steal his thunder.”
The chief stood there a moment, thinking, running his hands through his white hair. “You’re right.” He turned and walked back to the police unit, his son right behind him. Then the other men returned to their vehicles, and they all continued to wait.
About twenty minutes after Josh arrived at the 7-Eleven, a gold Lexus with a man at the wheel pulled up. He glanced at Josh and then his eyes scanned the parking lot. Josh had the sleeves of his T-shirt rolled up and his muscles were bulging. Even though he hadn’t been lifting, he thought with pride, he was still pretty buffed. If the guy tried anything really weird or looked like he was going to eat him. cut him up or something, he’d beat the shit out of him. He watched him through the windows of the Lexus. He could take him. He didn’t look like Sam or anything. He was a lot older. And there was something soft and weak about his face.
Interest of Justice Page 38